


Even in the dark I feel your resistance

by orphan_account



Series: A-Z of Kink: House [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hedonism, House pretends not to care, Porn with Feelings, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vaginal Sex, bit angsty in places, hard drug use, mentions of swinging/threesomes/public sex etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23031715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: OVER 18 ONLY. DO NOT READ OR INTERACT WITH THIS FIC IF YOU ARE UNDER 18.A-Z of Kink: E is for ExhibitionismSummary: Thirteen is an enigma, and it drives House insane.
Relationships: Remy "Thirteen" Hadley/Greg House
Series: A-Z of Kink: House [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620808
Kudos: 20





	Even in the dark I feel your resistance

**Author's Note:**

> Thirteen is my fucking absolute favourite. 
> 
> Set around season 5, though I borrowed the lesbian bar thing from season 6. 
> 
> Title plagiarised from Mariners Apartment Complex by Lana del Rey.

The rules never needed any discussion. The terms of this unspoken contract arrived fully formed, mutually understood. It would never take place at work. Never at each other's apartments. Never _frequently_. And most importantly, it was never to get personal.

Even so, a better man than House might think that a dying girl deserves more than a tired room at the cheapest motel in town, with its skeletal carpets and sheets perfumed with the musk of their predecessors. But logically, it's the best option. At the Smith Inn, they're almost guaranteed to not run into anyone they know. The staff are too preoccupied with strung out, troublemaking customers to care about whatever Thirteen might be snorting in the bathroom. Most importantly, the location adds a sordid taste to the whole affair, something that excites House more than he cares to admit.

It's their secret, and it's thrilling. But there's also a strange kind of bond to it.

House has been exhausted for years. He can't do anything now but let himself fall apart, because he can't see the point in fighting. Thirteen, powerless over the time limit on her life, hasn't even tried. He doesn't allow himself to feel for her – that would be pointless - but he accepts that he understands. He knows he can't stop her unravelling, but he appreciates the chaos and the loneliness of it. In softer moments, he might dare to call her a friend. And sometimes, part of being a friend is going along for the ride.

Thirteen may realise this, or she may not. Mostly, Thirteen just wants to get high and fuck.

They always do this at night, always after dark. The room is irradiated only by the streetlights outside, bathing the angles of Thirteen's face in their rough, unnatural glow. House doesn't even need to squint to see how wide her pupils are blown, with both desire and whatever she put up her nose before she shed her clothes and climbed on top of him. It could be meth, or maybe coke – he's never really asked. House has his whiskey and pills, and Thirteen has her powder, and they leave each other to it. If she asks him to partake, he declines. House has only ever really connected with opiates, with the divine emotional anaesthesia they offer, the way they make the world feel a little less powerful. But just as he wants to dial life back, Thirteen wants it harder, faster. She wants to taste every colour. She lives for chaos. She's wild and beautiful and damaged, and she enthralls him.

Her bra is still on. House cups her breast through the thin lace material, running the pad of his thumb to feel the hard nub of her nipple beneath. He mouths at her neck, inhaling the remaining traces of the day's perfume, and he revels in her because she's soft and delicious. He savours the clench of her heat around his cock, the friction trapping a ragged sigh between his mouth and her skin as she starts to rock on top of him.

“Fuck,” she's gasping, her usual restraint on the floor with her clothes. “_House._”

The pillow he propped up against his back is flimsy and worn out, and he's hardly comfortable against the headboard, but he doesn't complain. He can't, when Thirteen moans his name like that; when she's wanton and aggressive, her fingernails clawing a path up his chest until her hands come to rest on his shoulders. Her grip quickly becomes fierce, demanding, rather like her erratic rhythm on his cock. He chances looking up at her, meeting eyes that are dazed with amplified pleasure. He bites back a moan at the sight, the sensations. He never likes to be too vocal. Doesn't like to make himself so vulnerable, regardless of the fact that they'll remember so little of this in the morning. House never retains anything after he's mixed Maker's Mark with Vicodin, and Thirteen is perhaps more gone than he's ever seen her.

She grins at him, like they're sharing a private joke, before tossing her hair over her shoulder like women always do in movies. Like she's performing. Then as she closes her eyes. House runs his hands down her flanks, her skin soft as butter against his palms; he watches her shudder, satisfied. Smug, almost, that he can please her. Make her feel good. As he takes hold of her hips, encouraging her movements on his cock, he presses his lips to her throat and wonders if she'd ever do this with him sober.

Thirteen moans above him, a low, throaty sound which startles his eyes back to her face. “House,” she murmurs, “remember the time we went to that lesbian bar?”

He hesitates momentarily, confused as to why she's bringing this up. “Yeah. It was boring,” he responds, planting a soft kiss on her slack lips, one that she doesn't return. “You didn't even make out with anybody.”

Her head tilts back slightly, her eyes still closed. “I'll take you to a better bar next time,” she says, her voice wavering a little with exertion. “Have you heard of the g-spot?”

House is silent a moment, wondering if she's subtly criticising his sexual performance. As if in defence, he bucks his hips up into her. He's satisfied when he evokes a little cry, a slurred curse. He has to suck in a breath himself at the sensation. Being inside Thirteen is always glorious, when his loud, analytical mind will quieten down enough to let him enjoy it.

“Please,” he says, eventually. “I'm a guy. Looking for that thing is trying to find a tealeaf in a dumpster.”

Thirteen _giggles_. She never giggles. He makes a mental note to himself to get a strand of hair and test it tomorrow. See what she's taken.

“_No_, House.” Her breasts are bouncing in rhythm with her hips as she moves, and even through laboured, struggling breaths she sounds indignant. “It's a club. It's called The G-Spot. It's for swingers.”

House swallows. Well. That he wasn't expecting. He eyes her artificially lit, ecstatic face as he responds, “if you're about to tell me about a time you got ploughed in a sex club, don't you dare be mad if I don't last very long.”

He's glad that Thirteen still has her eyes closed, in case his face betrays him. Is he shocked? No, he decides. Not really. With what he's come to know about Thirteen, he can picture her in that environment. Whether or not she was actually there is another matter. She's doing this a lot lately. Trying to throw everyone off the scent of who she really is, even if no one was really sniffing for it anyway. House isn't sure if it's a game or if she's just paranoid. He can never quite get a handle on Thirteen, and it bothers him. A lot.

Her hands caress his shoulders in a manner that could almost be described as tender. House shudders, needing more of her touch; he starts to grind his hips against hers, meeting her movements, as if to communicate so without needing to say it.

She barely responds to his motion, and it's like she's somewhere else. That distorted, furtive grin is back on her face as she says, “has anyone ever watched you have sex?”

House thinks. “Does Wilson walking in on me with a hooker count?”

“No,” she moans.

“Then no.” House hesitates, before asking a little warily, “what about you?”

A pause, then another giggle. “I _love_ being watched.”

The words tumble from her mouth in a rush, as if she'd been waiting her whole life for House to ask her that question. Her hands curl where they rest on his shoulders, digging in, possessive, needing. Her arms, however, are almost taut against him, as if she's holding him away from her. Probably for the best, in this situation; but sometimes House finds himself wishing that she didn't resist him quite so much. That they weren't each trapped behind the walls they built for safety, the walls that keep them alone. Away from each other.

House swallows again, sliding an arm around her waist. He draws her in closer, until their stomachs, hers slick with beading sweat, press together. His other hand, wary, reaches for the back of her head, threading his fingers through her hair. He holds her like a lover, like he never has before. Part of him expects her to jerk away like an animal threatened.

But she doesn't. She relaxes her body against him, tilting her head to the side as if leaning into his touch.

House grows bolder. “Look at me,” he murmurs. Then, pathetically, helplessly, “please.”

“In a minute,” she whispers. “In just a minute.”

He stops the ruminations this statement evokes in their tracks by focusing on the simple pleasure of Thirteen's cunt sheathed around him; her soft, wordless exclamations, pitchy moans that end in ragged sighs. He grits his teeth and sucks in a breath. His eyes feel heavy, slack with booze and pills and sex.

He focuses on the patterns her soft, quivering lips make as they start moving again. “I went to the G-Spot about six months ago,” she begins, her words fast and clipped around the edges. “First time. I just wanted to watch. Wanted to see what it was like...”

She trails off, resuming her soft caresses of his shoulders. House nips at her lower lip, just within his reach. “Go on,” he whispers.

“I went alone. There were lots of people. Guys... girls... kissing... touching... fucking...” Her teeth graze her lower lip, her eyes still firmly closed. “I got a drink and took it all in. Then this couple approached me. Straight couple. No formalities. No conversation. Just... was I down...”

She's smiling, reliving memories that she isn't sharing with House. Impatient, insistent, he tugs on the hair curled around his fingers. Only gently, but enough, he hopes, to drive his point home. “What happened next?”

With a flick of her lips, Thirteen opens her eyes. Finally, she meets his gaze, and there's something hesitant there, amidst the vacant daze of powder and pleasure. Something bashful.

“Well,” she begins. “They were older than me. Didn't fuck around. As soon as I said yes, their hands...” Her breath catches in her throat. “Their hands were on me. I remember it so clearly. I was wearing this dress, and she came up behind me and put her arms around me... he smiled at me and started kissing my neck. Feeling me up. I didn't know what to do. How to react. So I just sort of...” She gasps. “Stood there.”

House is finding it difficult to picture Thirteen nervous and apprehensive. He assumes she would have concealed it well. He imagines strange hands exploring her body, the body that is heaving and mostly naked before him now. He allows himself to run his roughened fingers over her stomach, snaking up to her breasts. “And then what?” he presses.

Thirteen curls her fingers around his wrist, encouraging his touch. She jerks his hand so that his palm grazes over her nipples. “Felt good,” she continues. “They took off my dress. I was standing there, in my underwear and my heels, and people were starting to watch. Men, mostly. Some couples. I...”

She leans forward slightly, with a wanton moan as the change in angle brushes something new inside of her. House bites his lip, as his other hand roams the notches of her spine. “How many people?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I dunno. But I liked it. Liked making eye contact with total strangers. Watching them leer at me when she took off my bra. She liked my tits. She said so. She was biting my neck... pinching my nipples...”

House pictures it vividly; unfamiliar gazes drinking in Thirteen's body, watching her close her eyes and moan softly for this couple as they mauled her with their hands and mouths. He nips at Thirteen's neck, though he can't bring himself to really bite, and gives the nipple beneath his thumb a gentle squeeze. “Like this?” he murmurs.

“Fuck, yes.” She whimpers a little, and even in the dim light House can see her expression darkening. “And... House... I just remember him smiling and kneeling in front of me. He nudged my legs apart and then he put his mouth...” Her eyes are rolling a little. “... right _there._ And all the time there's people watching. Watching her pull my panties down so he can get in there properly. I'm looking around, I'm looking one guy right in the eye while I'm sucking on the woman's fingers, and he's looking back at me like he wishes it was him. God, fuck, I've never felt so wanted. So... _desired_...”

Her eyes are closed again, and House's inhibitions are fleeing. He's grunting and panting, and his hands are on her ass, and he's thrusting her up and down on top of him with a strength he thought he no longer possessed. She doesn't seem to mind. She's breathless and vicious now, her hands stiff claws as they roam his bare chest, his biceps, her nails leaving a tingling, pleasant sting across his flesh. It drives him deeper into abandon. Oh, her passion, her escalating cries, the mattress groaning beneath their force...

“I've never been so wet,” she continues, with a dreamy smile, like she's recounting memories of a first love. “So turned on. They've noticed, and it's driving them wild. His mouth is still on me, and her fingers are inside me, and she's moving so fast, and she's kissing me, and then that's it... I'm... _fuck,_ so quickly, never cum so quickly before... all because I'm being _watched_...”

“God, Thirteen.” He's not sure if his breathy exclamation is a result of pleasure or shock. Maybe, although he's loathe to acknowledge it, he's a little horrified.

She grins again, and it's like she knows. With her hand still on his wrist, she slides it down her body, one jerky motion settling his hand between her legs. “Touch my clit,” she demands, in a broken gasp. “House, _now_...”

House does not like orders, but there's something desperate in her tone that makes him ache to satsify her. With her guidance, he navigates the moist folds to find the hard nub, that place that makes Thirteen toss her head back in abandon when his fingertip presses and circles, just the way she likes it. They've done this enough times now that he finds his speed, his rhythm, easily. He loves the way she moans his name, the way the muscles of her thighs contract and quiver beneath his touch as he runs his hand over them, greedy, taking. It's all so dizzyingly fucking good, and he's getting close, despite himself; despite the new worry that he alone is never going to be enough for her. Despite everything that feels so fucking wrong with this.

Despite his need to know just a little more. Even in the midst of sex, even when he's nearing orgasm, his curiosity gets the better of him.

“What is it about being watched?” he asks, almost as breathless as she is. “What do you like?”

Her eyes are closed again. She's floating, distant, somewhere else, somewhere he can't touch her. “Can you picture it, House? All those eyes on you while you're so exposed... imagine the rush. Total strangers seeing you naked. Watching you cum...”

Her hand is on his cheek, and the gesture is simple, but it's almost tender, and it's the closest he's ever felt to her. He can't bring himself to trust it. 

When her thighs clench around his, it makes his bad leg grizzle, even through the fog of Vicodin and booze. But he doesn't care, wouldn't dream of asking her to stop. Not when she's cursing and rocking and mumbling to higher powers, not when she's so completely lost in pleasure. Not when she's right where she wants to be – blissed out and unaware. Forgetting everything.

House knows how glorious it is to forget.

Then with several fierce rolls of her hips, Thirteen is cumming with a pitchy, moaning cry, collapsing against him. Whether by mistake or design, her forehead is pressed to House's, her quivering lips milimetres from his as ecstasy rips through her body. The force, the convulsive clench of her walls around his cock, sends House over the edge too, barely a fraction of a moment afterwards. Powerless to orgasm, he slams into her body one final time before halting, a series of broken sighs escaping him as the hand on her thigh seizes up, forcing careless fingernails into her soft flesh.

The little death.

They remain still, panting for breath. Words are not spoken, as House seizes the chance to slide an arm around her waist. He rests one hand at the small of her back, the other reaching for the crown of her head, and he holds her like she's precious and delicate. He breathes in her musk, sweat and hospital antiseptic and faded perfume, and closes his tired eyes just long enough to wish for more of her.

When Thirteen grunts and wriggles, House reluctantly releases her from his arms. Her wiry limbs lack their usual grace as she dismounts and her feet hit the floor with a thud. He notices the quiver in her calves as she stands up, rubbing at her septum.

“Reckon the shower works?” she asks.

House shrugs. His eyes are drawn to his softening cock, his bare legs, his thigh with its mottled scar tissue. Reality all over again. He absently fingers the soiled condom sheathed around his length as he asks, “was any of that actually true?”

Thirteen doesn't hesitate. He recognises that shamelessness.

Out of the corner of her eye, he watches her push askew hair out of her face as she responds, “if you enjoyed it, does it matter?”

Of course it matters. It all fucking matters. At least, that's what he wants to tell her, as he grips his bad thigh and swivels round to face her. He wants to get up in her face, yell it at her, as he reaches for her hand, hanging at her side. He wants some kind of response, as he realises he's holding her fingers aimlessly, because he doesn't dare lock his through them. He's not sure what he's doing, and her baffled, slightly troubled expression confirms that she doesn't either.

This isn't how it's meant to be. This is a definite violation of the rules. And House knows this, so he reels it in. “_Remy_," is all he manages.

She blinks a little too fast, then slips her hand out of his. “Don't.”

And House doesn't.

Thirteen lingers for a moment, as if by way of apology. Then she wraps her arms around herself and turns away. As she wanders a little unsteadily towards the bathroom, she finally removes her bra, tossing it to the floor.

House listens out for the sound of gushing water, then lays back down across the mattress. He should dispose of the condom, he should get dressed, because Thirteen will be ready to hit the clubs when she comes out and he needs to get back to his apartment, to his own bed. He wonders if he should try to persuade her to come back with him. She's already wired, and once she hits the booze and the dancefloor with its horny and willing men and women, she could end her night in an even worse motel than this. With someone who doesn't understand her, who doesn't even want to try. Someone with whom she might not even be safe.

Well, fuck it. She uses them, they use her. Gregory House isn't going to be accused of caring. Not even by Gregory House.

**

The next day, House googles The G-Spot, and is unsurprised to discover that it doesn't exist.


End file.
